


Earning His Worship

by blissed_bess



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Body Modification, Bondage, Crying, Cutting, Drowning, Figging, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, Knotting, M/M, Milking, Orgasm Denial, Rape, Scarification, Scars, Sensory Deprivation, Tentacles, Torture, Whipping, breath play, cat-boy, drugged, non-con, urethra play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-16
Updated: 2012-04-16
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blissed_bess/pseuds/blissed_bess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one worships Draco's scars quite like Harry can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Earning His Worship

**Title:** Earning His Worship  
 **Author:** **Fandom:** Harry Potter  
 **Pairings:** Harry/Draco, Fenrir/Draco, Bellatrix, Draco/tentacle monster  
 **Summary:** No one worships Draco's scars quite like Harry can.  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Warnings:** body modification, bondage, breath play, cat-boy, cutting, crying, drowning, drugged, figging, forced orgasm, humiliation, knotting, milking, non-con, orgasm denial, rape, scars, scarification, sensory deprivation, tentacles, torture, urethra play, whipping  
 **Author notes:** I revisited my first love – the Harry Potter fandom – with this submission at the fabulous Darkfest - Thanks to my beta there, B!  
   
   
 **Earning His Worship**  
   
   
Part One – The Tale of the Werewolf’s Pet  
Part Two – The Tale of the Tenacious Tentacles  
Part Three – The Tale of the Dancing Bells  
   
   
 **Part One – The Tale of the Werewolf’s Pet**  
   
 _Harry lies next to Draco on the big wide bed.  
   
He’s gently rubbing his hand over three ragged scars on Draco’s hip.  
   
‘They must have hurt,’ he says softly.  
   
‘They did,’ Draco whispers back.  
   
‘Would you…’ Harry’s voice breaks. ‘Would you be able to tell me… how you got them…?’  
   
‘I could try,’ Draco says. ‘Are you sure…?’  
   
‘Yes Draco,’ Harry’s nodding. ‘Tell me…’_  
   
***  
   
He’s standing before the Dark Lord, trying to appear strong and brave. But he can feel his heart pounding to keep pace with his panic, can feel his lungs labouring to get enough air, can feel the trembling of his legs trying to keep him upright.  
   
No trace now of his arrogance, haughtiness, or his privileged place as the prestigious son of proud heritage. He’s pale and slight, and his robe has rips and tears, the hem tattered and dusty. There’s a bruise on his forehead, a small cut on his cheek and there’s unidentified muck splashed on his sleeve. He’s a sorry failure. A failed son of a failed father.  
   
The Death Eaters are milling about behind him making sure they have good line of sight, excited to view the entire spectacle of the Malfoy-brat’s comeuppance.  
   
He can hear the drone of Fenrir Greyback’s growling account of the prior evening’s attack on Hogwarts. Knows his own failures will make up a significant portion of the story. He’s pretty sure he’ll be _Crucio’d_ first, then _Avada Kedavra’d_ – so he’s concentrating on preparing himself for his end, hoping he won’t pee himself while being _Crucio’d_ , wondering if his robe will ride up while he’s writhing on the floor – maybe if he sort of surreptitiously tries to tuck the bottom of his hem into his boots…  
   
‘ … one week. For fucking, not feeding. Do not maim him or turn him – I have plans for him yet.’  
   
‘Thank you, My Lord.’ Despite the words, Greyback’s voice is flavoured with disappointment. ‘My Lord is most gracious.’ Actually, more than disappointment. More like he’s choking on bitterness and denied want.  
   
Draco risks a quick look around, realising he’s missed something important. He senses it was something _very_ important.  
   
He’s trying to work out how to create enough saliva so that he can unclog his dried out mouth and throat and tongue, enough so that he can dampen his lips and try to speak a question of clarification, when he realises the Dark Lord is laughing. It’s such a horrible sight that Draco quivers visibly, chills of fear and shock threatening to take him apart.  
   
‘ … excellent suggestion, McNair,’ the Dark Lord guffaws. ‘We should celebrate such a rare occurrence.’  
   
 _By Slytherin’s great hairy balls, Draco, fucking pay attention!_  
   
But it’s too late.  
   
The Dark Lord is flourishing his wand about and enunciating like a Gilderoy Lockhart valedictorian, and Draco feels the first of the magic hit his body.  
   
He’s bracing for pain, he’s clenching every sphincter he can, he’s trying to hold his robes between his knees, he’s… hearing sniggers and laughter coming from the viewing audience of Death Eaters.  
   
There’s a heartbeat delay before he can _feel_ the difference, feel the addition to his body. He reaches up, slowly, fearfully, touches his fingertips to his head. He runs his fingers delicately through his hair till he gets to the _newness_. His fingers cautiously explore – furry, triangular, erect, _protrusions_ – it’s so rare that he’s without a mirror, _where’s a fucking mirror when I fucking need one!_ He looks around frantically, as if he will see his reflection in the Death Eaters’ robes, but he already knows the truth.  
   
Cat ears.  
   
He has cat ears.  
   
More magic - a swishing cat-tail. More magic – big hand-sized paws for hands. More – he’s dropped to his hands and knees, with cat-paw knee-pads.  
   
He’s screaming _No!_ and _Please stop!_ and _Help me!_ and a whole lot of other indecipherable screams. But then he’s hit by magic again, and all he can do is meow and hiss and wail. So he screams to any other cat in hearing distance _No!_ and _Please stop!_ and _Help me!_ and the Death Eaters laugh and laugh at his cute meows.  
   
He sees a royal purple diamante-studded collar, with leash attached, before it is locked around his neck. He feels a hand on his head, _scratching his ears!_ , and he strikes out to slice and shred. With claws that are instantly magically removed. He screeches with imagined pain, and shuffles around on all fours ( _paws!_ ) to better see who has invaded his personal cat-space.  
   
Oh.  
   
The Dark Lord has his wand drawn, and all humour has vanished from the room. Possibly from the entire universe.  
   
Draco meows pathetically.  
   
And the Dark Lord smiles.  
   
‘Fenrir! You will need a firm hand with your new pet. It’s clear he will need a lot of training.’  
   
Fenrir grimaces.  
   
‘One more spell before you leave, I think, one more gift to thank you for your work at Hogwarts. One more punishment for this unworthy one.’  
   
And again Draco is hit with a wave of magic. Just like before it takes a heartbeat before he can identify the _change_.  
   
He becomes acutely aware that he is naked. While his paws are furry and his tail is furry and his ears are furry, the rest of him is naked. He tries to control his tail, tries to wrap it down over his crack and over his balls and over his cock – but it twitches and swishes about – leaving all else exposed.  
   
It feels like he has internalised his tremors and chills. They’re crawling around under his naked skin, vibrating and itching and prickling. He tries stretching his neck and arching his back to relieve the inner irritation. He pads around in a circle trying to walk it out.  
   
He’s never been so aware that he has nipples. They’re bursting forth from his chest, hot pink areolas surrounding erect pulsating nipples, every pleasure nerve multiplied and amplifying.  
   
He’s meowing plaintively, rolling his shoulders and rocking his hips. And he rocks his hips again. And again. And…  
   
… and awareness bursts within him.  
   
An inner light of understanding flicks on, and he glows with it. His cock is full and hard and throbbing, hanging heavy between his thighs. With each pulse of his fevered blood he feels it bounce and undulate, caught between the pull of gravity and the heights of erection. He’s leaking pre-come, a sticky smear of fluid, trickling in waves from the heart of him. His balls are drawn up tight, full and round, brimming with his very essence, ready to overflow. His taint is a hot smooth slippery-slide, slick and sensitive, a stretched-tight pathway to the core of his need.  
   
And he needs. His tiny hole feels like a gaping chasm, loose and hot and moist. He’s pushing his hips up, trying to spread his arse cheeks through sheer willpower alone. Trying to display his need. Display his yearning, and his desire. He’s a hole needing to be filled. A hole that leads all the way to his heart, his mind, his soul. He is empty, desolate, hollow.  
   
He’s furry and feline, hard and throbbing, open and slick.  
   
He’s in heat.  
   
Screeching and wailing his anger, sorrow and his _needneedneed_ , he tries to stand but tips and rolls in a tangle of paws and tail. There’s laughter and taunts until finally Greyback snatches up the leash and tugs till Draco feels like he’s going to pass out; choked with his own collar. He’s dragged out of the room, paws sliding on the slippery floor, to start his week as the werewolf’s pet.  
   
***  
   
 _‘I remember Fenrir,’ says Harry. He’s rubbing his fingertips softly, gently, over the ragged raised edges of the scar on Draco’s hip. ‘Fucking savage he was.’  
   
‘Yes,’ says Draco. ‘He was...’  
   
‘Tell me,’ says Harry. ‘Tell me what happened…’_  
   
***  
   
He has no words.  
   
He can’t plead or bargain or beg or bribe.  
   
He can’t lie or promise or offer or deny.  
   
He has mewling and meows and wailing and howling.  
   
And none of them are good enough. None of them give expression to Draco’s fear and terror and horror and _no!no!no!_ No way now to say how special he is, how important he is. How he deserves only the best, and extra chances, and to be excused, and always forgiven.  
   
He hears the slam of the door, feels the room shake with the ferocity of the act. Realises they’ve arrived in Greyback’s rooms. The yank on his collar is so violent he thinks his head will go spinning off.  
   
‘Fucking _fuck!_ ’ Greyback is ranting, storming back and forward in the tiny space of his room. ‘Fucking useless!’  
   
And Draco is kicked in the ribs, held upright on his paws only by the leash holding up his head.  
   
‘Fucking rooms full of cash and jewels and gold and treasure,’ another kick. ‘And what do I get? What do I fucking get?’  
   
He’s lifted up by the leash on his collar, dangling by his neck, paws waving uselessly, till he’s eye to eye with the werewolf.  
   
‘ _What do I fucking get?_ ’ Greyback yells in his face, spittle flicking on his forehead, as he’s shaken violently. ‘The Malfoy brat! That I can’t maim or eat! What fucking use are you then? To be returned in one piece! Do you know what’s going to happen? Do you have any idea? The first time – the _first fucking time_ – that I fuck you, I will to rip you to pieces. Inside and out. Ragged shredded bloody pieces. I won’t be able to stop. You’ll be wrecked and knotted and ruined. You fragile fucking fairy! I’ll return you to Him as a bag of bloody broken pieces. Do you get that? Do you understand?’  
   
‘Meeooww! Meow, meow, meow!’ Draco’s saying: _I’ll give you cash and jewels and gold and treasure!_ ‘Meow, meow, meow!’ _Just let me go, please, please, just leave me alone! Please!_  
   
‘But I’m claiming my reward, don’t you think for a moment that I’m not. I deserve the best fucking fuck of my fucking life. And I’m getting it from you. So what you had better do,’ and he’s thrown against the wall, ‘is fucking _get yourself ready_.’  
   
Draco struggles to right himself onto his four paws. He can sense Greyback moving about; sense the magic of transfiguration rippling in the room. He’s got nowhere to go, no one to go to. He’s trapped. Terrified.  
   
Greyback reaches down to him, one large hand going under Draco, rubbing his belly and palming over Draco’s throbbing cock. The other hand reaches him from behind, between his trembling legs, rubbing over his pulsing hole, circling his rim, teasing over his taint.  
   
And he _melts_ under the touches, his body turning to yearning, _needing_ , liquefied heat. He’s rocking and undulating, and making feline sounds of such pleasure and need. There’s absolute horror in the knowledge that the hands he’s now rubbing against with such need-filled ecstasy have sheathed claws that could rip him to bloody shreds with so very little effort.  
   
Greyback’s sitting on the floor now, back against a wall, legs splayed. Draco’s dragged forward, the pleasuring hands never ceasing their work, just pushing him into place. Whispered words of magic, and Greyback’s cock is unleashed. Draco is so lost to his want and need, to his heat and pleasure, that his begging and moaning stops, his mouth falls open, his tongue moistens his lips in readiness, and he _drools_ for the want of that cock.  
   
A cock that is too big for him. He mewls pitifully. There is simply no place in his body that that cock will fit. He wants and needs that cock, but his body is just too small for it. He cries, heart-wrenching sobs, that are wetly mewed, even as he tries to flip his body so that he can impale himself on that cock.  
   
He knows that he will die without it, and die if he should succeed. His body is burning with the heat of his need, rutting into the hands cradling him, yearning for release, pushing to be impaled. He is cock hungry and cock thirsty and cock empty. He is aching and hollow. He is simply the outside of a hole, a hole needing to be filled. With cock.  
   
And he sobs harsh, plaintive meows, knowing that the only cock available to him is too big.  
   
Greyback’s hands don’t still in their rubbing and palming and pleasuring, but they tilt Draco forward, so that there is no doubt of what he is meant to do.  
   
‘That’s right, you little cock-sucker,’ Greyback’s growling, ‘let’s see if you’re as good as everyone says. There’s a reason, kitten, a reason our Lord didn’t try to improve on the fucking perfection of your fucking mouth. Left you with those cock-sucking lips. We’ve all heard the tales. Now you can show me how fucking true they really are. Come on, pet, get on with it – show me your fucking worth.’  
   
And Draco does. The cock is smeared with his tears and snot and drool as he mouths and rubs and sucks along the length of it. He licks his lips and the corners of his mouth. He stretches his mouth round the head, swallowing convulsively as he chokes on his own saliva. He tongues the smooth plains of the head and the deep valley of the slit. His jaw aches already and the only way he can get more cock in his mouth is if the bones of his throat break and the cartilage dissolves.  
   
Greyback starts jacking himself, leaving one hand still palming Draco, long fingers teasing along his taint and crack. Draco is yearning desperately towards his own orgasm. He’s humping and rutting, and he’s sucking and tonguing, and his blood is pounding a burning beat in his own cock. He’s meowing, groaning, moaning; breathing ragged and laboured, panting his need aloud.  
   
The cock head filling his mouth is pulsing and gushing pre-come. It’s thrusting so far down his throat that it blocks Draco’s breathing altogether. He slowly suffocates around the iron-hard cock, waiting for Greyback to come. There’s a moment of stillness, a long drawn out groan, and he’s shoved flat onto his belly. With each splash of Greyback’s hot release on his back, he moans his want and need.  
   
Greyback delights in rubbing his come into Draco’s skin, massaging it all along his back, trying to hold Draco’s hips still as he thumbs it into his arse cheeks.  
   
When Greyback removes his hands from his body and stands to fix himself up, Draco wails in denial. He’s left humping air, and he lowers his hips to see if he can get enough friction from rubbing against the floor. Too sore and uncomfortable, and he’s cursing his paws instead of hands. He rolls onto his back, front paws waving uselessly, back arching, hips thrusting, cock straining into nothingness.  
   
He flips onto all fours again, hard and heavy and hurting with need, screeching his desperation to Greyback. Who backhands him with such force that he’s lifted from the floor and crashes hard against the wall. He whimpers in defeat, bruised but not broken.  
   
‘Shut the fuck up!’ he’s told. ‘You’ll come on my cock, you fucking foolish _pet!_ When _I’m_ good and ready.’  
   
And Draco has no fight left in him. There’s nothing to fight against. He is a slave to his body’s heat, a slave to his body’s needs. He’s the werewolf’s pet, and he is royally fucked.  
   
Greyback kicks a small metal cage and when Draco submissively climbs in, it is transfigured to mold itself around his body. He’s on his hands and knees, surrounded by a metal cage. He’s shown a dildo – a dildo of such a size that he cries silently. It’s attached to the back of the cage, lined up so that if he scrunches himself forwards as far as he possibly can manage, it kisses the rim of his moist hot hole.  
   
Greyback laughs when he sees Draco’s muscles already trembling with strain.  
   
‘Won’t take you long, _pet_ ,’ Greyback spits at him. ‘Be in your best interest to be balls deep on that thing by the time I get back. ‘Cos when I get back, ready or not, I’m gonna have you pet, stretched and loose, or tight for the shredding, I won’t care. You’re my fucking reward, my pet, and I’m gonna be claiming my reward for the next seven days.’  
   
Draco hears the slam of the door and he wails to the empty room. His neck and shoulders and arms are quivering in their efforts to keep himself off the dildo. But, where it rubs across the hot puffy _readiness_ of his hole, he wants. He needs. Even if it splits him in half, he will succumb soon enough…  
   
***  
   
 _‘Draco,’ soothes Harry. ‘I know how hard it is for you to remember. Are you ok? Will you be able to tell me the rest?’  
   
‘It’s not easy,’ Draco whispers.  
   
‘Thank you,’ Harry strokes Draco’s hip, right over the pattern of scars, ‘thank you for trying. Please, only when you’re ready… only if you can…’ _  
   
***  
   
Draco does not notice Greyback’s return. He is totally lost to his heat. He is nothing but heat-driven instinct, need, and desperation.  
   
His senses go on high alert though as he _scents_ the presence in the room. He’s hyperventilating as he tries to inhale and inhale and inhale. He fucks himself on the useless, _useless_ , pretend-cock, so slick with his juices it slides and glides _uselessly_ deep within his wanting body. His hole aches with need, hot and red and puffy, clenching round the _useless_ dildo, wanting more, wanting more.  
   
Desperate mewling rips from his throat. He’s trapped in a cage, ablaze with heat, fucked by fakery, lost to lust.  
   
The cage vanishes and he has time enough to sob in utter desolation in the moments between being empty of the dildo and being filled by a cock. He’s dwarfed by the size and strength of the presence over him, awed by the power of his taking, and filled with his aphrodisiacal scent.  
   
Draco’s on all fours, totally controlled by the hold of the huge hands at his hips. Body bypassing brain, he tilts his head, stretching out the expanse of his vulnerable neck and throat and the pulsing life-blood held within. He hears growling pleasure and feels slobbering kisses along his exposed throat and he purrs with delight. The kisses turn to licks then to pain-filled suctioned bites, and he revels in the thrill of being marked.  
   
He lowers himself further, dropping his head to the floor, pushing up onto the cock trying to make it go deeper, deeper, to fill his emptiness. He’s being well and truly fucked, his rim flaring with sensation, sucking the cock in, and gripping tightly against the drag out.  
   
One huge hand leaves his hip, slides its way through the sweat over his belly and up his chest, and drags a fine sharp claw across a nipple. It catches on his puckered areola then trails a white-hot slash of slicing sharp pain across and back and forwards and over and around his tightly erect nipple. His body convulses, like it’s freight-training through a dry climax, head thrown back, spine arched, toes curled. He’s groaning, deep and rumbling, body bucking and twitching, as the same attention is paid to his other nipple.  
   
He has been riding the edge of an orgasm for so long now his cock is dribbling pre-come like a leaking faucet. He can’t separate them, his need to come and his need to be come in. His whole body is a sex organ, throbbing and cycling up and up and up. Every movement, every blink, swallow, twitch, everything, is a pulsing sensation of pleasure-filled pain thrusting him closer and closer to the edge.  
   
And he wants that edge, wants it with a clawing desperation, wants to come and come and be come in, till he bathes in and drowns in his own and the come of the one fucking him.  
   
The big, strong hands are back at his hips now, holding him still. There’s so much cock inside of him, he’s meowing in confusion as he feels the slow steady strain of the body behind him. But then there’s pressure at his rim, something _more_ being forced inside of him, and his meows turn to agonised screams and his body contorts in its effort to escape the intrusion, and his rim is stretched beyond imagining. It’s slow and torturous and he’s sobbing with pain and fear yet still he _needsneedsneeds_. He knows now what he’s been yearning for. Needed so desperately. As his body collapses with quivering exhaustion, the final barrier relaxes, and it slips into his body, and his hole twitches to close behind it. He bucks and strains in an unconscious need to _getitout getitout_ but he is stuck.  
   
He is knotted.  
   
The presence above him is moaning and growling in uncensored pleasure, slowly rocking into him, building up speed and momentum, thrusting deeply within him. The knot is caressing his pleasure with every single movement – his whole body now simply one pleasure nerve radiating from his prostate. It shorts out his higher-brain functioning and he becomes a creature of response, a process of pleasure, a function of breeding.  
   
As the one fucking him finally reaches his release and the knot within him begins pulsing out its essence, Draco shatters in orgasm. He whites out and blacks out and comes to, and the knot is rubbing and pulsing and coming still, and Draco shatters again. And again… and again… and again…  
   
He is so full of come that he sloshes. Totally boneless, his limp form is held in place only by the knot and the huge hands supporting him. He’s twitching and quivering with his over-sensitised body’s continuing attempts to orgasm, and with his limp cock’s attempts to dry come.  
   
He’s aware of nothing, not even the unsheathed claws of one of those hands that are embedded in his hip. He fades into blackness, still impaled on the werewolf’s cock.  
   
Though he is fucked and knotted in much the same way four more times during his week as the werewolf’s pet, and shared out amongst various favoured Death Eaters and the werewolf’s pack mates, the three deep gashes he receives from Greyback’s claws during his first fuck are his only physical reminder.  
   
Unlike all else done to him, they alone are unresponsive to his intense and extensive healing; leaving three ragged edged scars on his pale delicate hip...  
   
***  
   
 _‘Gods, Draco,’ Harry croons. He gently rubs over the three scars. ‘Thank the gods you survived, though what you went through…’  
   
He’s moves Draco’s body, and Draco rolls himself obligingly onto his front, cradles his head in his arms, and raises his arse high.  
   
‘To have done that to you,’ Harry continues, as he slowly slicks his own cock in long, slow pulls though he is already fully hard, ‘to have hurt you so badly. I’m so sorry baby, so sorry I didn’t kill the bastard sooner.’_

_He kneels behind Draco, lines up and thrusts straight in. He groans and moans and whispers love words in Draco’s ear. He moves with so much care, so gently, allowing the pleasure to build and build. Until his orgasm washes over him, and he cries his thankfulness into Draco’s tilted, exposed neck, and he gathers up some of his come, and softly, soothingly, rubs it into Draco’s scarred hip._  
   
   
 **Part Two - The Tale of the Tenacious Tentacles**  
   
 _‘This one is long, Draco,’ Harry slides the pad of his index finger along the clean white line of the scar.  
   
‘Yes,’ says Draco. ‘I remember that one.’  
   
‘It’s so long, Draco, all the way round here. What could have caused it? It must have been terrible,’ says Harry, tracing the scar’s pathway from Draco’s knee, right round his calf and trailing off at his ankle. ‘Must have hurt.’  
   
‘Yes, it did,’ says Draco. ‘I’ll tell you…’  
   
‘Thank you,’ whispers Harry, fingertip continuing to caress the length of the scar. _  
   
***  
   
‘Father, I’m sorry.’  
   
‘A disgrace, Draco,’ his father hisses, ‘you are an utter disgrace to the name of Malfoy.’  
   
‘It’s not my fault,’ he whines, hoping his father will be cross enough to just stalk away and simply end this useless discussion.  
   
‘Of course it’s your fault,’ a flick of white-blonde hair. ‘Foolish boy to be caught. Should you ruin my good name, and the history and tradition behind it, I will ruin you. Do you understand?’  
   
‘Yes, Father,’ Draco looks out over the lake, the once tranquil water now rippling at some disturbance. ‘I understand well enough.’  
   
‘Family, Draco, family is everything. Next time you want to romp with someone – boy, girl, hippogriff, for all I care – next time: Do. Not. Get. Caught. You were _seen_ you fool.’  
   
‘But Father…’  
   
‘Enough that you can’t best that filthy mudblood in your classes, enough that you can’t best _Mr_ Potter on the Quidditch field. Enough that I hear about your _cock-sucking_ ways from an _associate_ , Draco! A _business_ associate,’ his father’s voice gets softer and softer, ‘during a very _delicate_ negotiation.’  
   
‘If Blaise hadn’t tattle-taled…’  
   
‘Enough!’ his father slams down his cane, then points it straight at his son’s chest.  
   
Draco steps back, steps back, knowing the edge of the lake is just behind him.  
   
‘I’m sorry Father,’ he’s trying for calm, but even to his own ears he sounds whiney.  
   
‘Enough, Draco!’ his father’s eyes are sparkling with his disgust. ‘Always excuses.’ Jabs his cane to the rhythm of his speech. ‘Well, it’s time you learned responsibility. You are the Malfoy heir. And no son of mine is going to _humiliate_ me so publicly again. You will learn, my son. You. Will. Learn.’  
   
And it’s one forceful jab too many, as Draco steps back one step too many, and lands with an undignified yelp in the lake. Freezing water and sodden robes and water-heavy shoes leave him splashing and flailing in his struggle to reach the bank.  
   
He manages one wetly spluttered _‘Father!_ before Lucius leans over and hisses, _‘The creatures of the lake will teach you, my son, the true meaning of humiliation. Take heed and learn well.’_ And with a flick of his robe, his father is gone.  
   
***  
   
He has heard the stories of the creatures of the lake many a time, huddled by the fireplace in the Slytherin rooms, high on weed and full of butterbeer. Terror-filled horror stories and erotically-charged porn stories, featuring creatures of lust and pleasure and monsters of pain and desecration. He has heard them all, several times over, and for all their repetition and claims of ‘no, it’s all true, _insert some name_ heard it first-hand from _insert some equally implausible name_ who swears it’s all true’ he has never been the one to hear it _first-hand_ , and has thus never believed any of the stories.  
   
He’s watched stupid Hufflepuffs spend sun-drenched summer days swimming and splashing each other like six year olds. And he’s endured the debacle of the Tournament played out underwater and out-of-sight. He’s seen the lake blue and glistening, and grey and dull. He’s glided across it in a little boat and he’s flown across it perched on a broom.  
   
But he’s never been immersed in it before, never felt the chill of its water, the pull of its current. Never been weighed down by his layers of wet clothing, never had it drip from his sodden hair into his eyes.  
   
He’s straining to reach the bank of the lake, clawing at the water to get there, when he feels something brush against his leg. It winds round, from knee to ankle, sharp spikes embedded in him, gripping firm and tight. Before he can brace himself he’s tugged off balance and dragged, screaming and spitting water, away from the edge of the lake. No idea how deep the water truly is, he has time for a gasp of breath before being pulled down, down, under the surface.  
   
So many things hit him at once – the icy coldness of the water, the sting of it in his eyes, the muting it makes of sound, and the impossibility of breathing it. It presses in on his chest, and his lungs burn, and the pressure _hurts_ , and his throat convulses, and he _needs_ to breathe.  
   
Firm fist-like pressure grips his hair, pulling him up, and his head breaks the surface and he’s facing the sky through water and tears. He’s dragging in harsh ragged breaths trying to get enough oxygen to his _slowslow_ brain so that he can just _thinkthinkthink_. His heart is pounding, his body pumping adrenaline. He just starts to get enough energy to struggle again when he feels new strands wrap round his wrists.  
   
Then he knows… he _knows_ … and he struggles furiously, but is held tight with purpose and control.  
   
There are tentacles wrapped round his ankles and tentacles wrapped round his wrists and there’s a tentacle wrapped in his hair and he’s in the deepest part of the lake, alone and about to die. He’ll be ripped apart, drowned, chewed on, swallowed whole – he’s not sure which – they’ve all featured in the horror stories he’s heard about the creatures in the lake.  
   
But it’s when his clothes are ripped from his body, new tentacles tearing and shredding the fabric, leaving him naked and quivering, suspended in the water, that he realises his death may not be as swift as he’d hoped.  
   
***  
   
 _‘Now I know why you’re so scared of drowning, Draco,’ says Harry with a smile.  
   
‘It’s a terrible thing, Harry, I’m sure everyone’s scared of drowning,’ says Draco with a frown, ‘and rightly so.’  
   
‘Well, thank the Gods you didn’t,’ says Harry quickly. ‘But you must have come close…’  
   
‘Yes,’ says Draco. ‘Very close…’ _  
   
***  
   
The tentacle tangled in his hair holds his head above the water. He’s on his back held spreadeagled, naked in the cold water, being caressed by tentacles. A tentacle winds round his neck, suckers pulsing gently either side of his throat, softly suckling right over his life-needing arteries. Another slides over his chest, suckers attaching to his nipples, stronger pressure there, sliding and sucking over, and sucking round, his tight hard nubs.  
   
He’s terrified of drowning, terrified of going under the water. Yet he can’t scream, can’t get enough air to scream. There’s a tentacle winding over his eyes, suckers over each eye socket, and his vision is gone. He tries wrenching his head from side to side, but he can barely move, and the grip in his hair holds tight. He loses it totally when the tips of two tentacles squirm their way into his ears, burrowing in and coming to rest, suckers latching on to his earlobes. It dawns on him slowly that he is deafened, and long moments are lost as he _strains_ and _tries_ and _concentrates_ and _focuses_ and _listens_ , just to _hear_ something, anything.    
   
But he is without sight, without sound, without control. He finally drags enough air into his lungs to scream, for help, for release, for forgiveness. Ragged pain in his throat and breathy vibrations in his chest and cold air on his moist warm tongue, but no sound, he hears no sound to confirm his screams. He feels his heart pounding, feels his pulse in his blocked off ears, feels his eyelashes flicker, feels the gentle pressure at his neck, firmer pressure at his wrists and ankles, but can’t hear his own voice beg for mercy.  
   
He’s lost in real panic now – terrified, fight-or-flight, full-blown panic.  
   
Wet slime on his lips, salt on his tongue, and it’s in his mouth, probing at the back of his throat before he has a chance to react. Choking and gagging against it, tongue rubbing up trying to push it out, swallowing, swallowing, as saliva and slime mixes and his throat convulses in violent paroxysms. He needs to roll in a ball, wrap his arms round his knees, and cough and spew and spit till he’s empty and hollow again. But he’s held taut by tentacles, stretched wide in icy water, blind and deaf and airless.  
   
It withdraws a little, just enough so that he can desperately gulp air into his lungs, just enough so that he can swallow and not choke. It rests on his tongue and he bites down hard but it is rubbery and firm and doesn’t react in any way. Instinctively, his tongue keeps trying to push it out, rubbing against it, testing its width and depth. Its taste starts to register, and his saliva flows. He swallows and swallows.  
   
And his panic is receding. And his muscles are unclenching. And his body is relaxing. He’s becoming very aware that there is a tentacle suckling on his chest. His nipples are tingling and pulsing to a slow steady rhythm, and they’re soaking in the slick, slimy moisture, sparking with sensation as the suckers slowly circle and slide and sup at his nubs. His back arches, pushing into the pleasure, driven by pure reaction.  
   
He suckles the obstruction in his mouth, swallowing the slightly salty, slightly bitter, slightly citrus flavour, and relaxes into the pressure gripping his hair. He is falling gently into the darkness, and deafness, and muteness, and he floats serenely, comforted that he is supported safely and securely by a creature of the lake.  
   
If his eyes could see, they would glaze over and soften the world. If his ears could hear, they would mute all and quieten the world. If his limbs could move, they would relax into stillness and float in the world. If his voice could cry, it would whimper with wonder and drown out the world. And if his mouth could be empty, it would suck that tentacle right back in, slurping its length and swallowing its slime.  
   
Mind hazy, body lazy, he drifts in darkness and silence.  
   
More tentacles touch him now and he tries to adjust his body to welcome them. They’re sliding in slimy paths over his belly, up his thighs, down his back, through his toes, round his knees. Caressing every part of him, and he spreads wider to ease their way.  
   
Suckers latch over his ribs, along his groin, and up his innermost thighs. Tentacles wind round his knees and bend them up, spreading him wide. His body bounces to the beat of the unison suckling, at his ears, over his eyes, on his tongue, along his neck, on his nipples, over his ribs, down his back, at his wrists, round his groin, along his thighs, over his toes.  
   
And he’s swallowing and sucking and tonguing and drooling, and stretching and opening and wanting and spreading.  
   
A small, still alert, part of his mind is crying _fuck, fuck, fuck_ and knows that he’s about to be raped, even as his body prepares to enable it. He knows he is being drugged, even as he sucks and drinks it down. He knows it is against his will, even as he yearns and needs more. And he knows the rest of his mind is adjusting to and embracing and wallowing in the limited amount of sensory input it is getting – amplifying and magnifying and expanding it till he _feels, feels, feels_.  
   
He’s moaning and begging and whimpering around the tentacle filling his mouth, head thrown back, throat exposed and vulnerable to the suckers working on his pulse points.  
   
He groans, _desperately,_ when he finally feels a tentacle pulsing at the darkest entrance to his body. Warm moist suckling round his rim and just the tip sliding over and in, over and in, not penetrating at all, just teasing his need. Another tentacle circles his testicles, great big suckers attaching over his balls, and he vibrates with the pulse of their suction. The tentacles at his knees and thighs spread him wider, bend him deeper, and hold him still as he tries with all his might to both escape and impale himself.  
   
Slick and slimy, the tentacle at his hole slides home. It squirms past his sphincter and squeezes into his tightness, and expands to fill him, stretching him to splitting point. It fucks him to the same rhythm of every other sucker attached to his body. Blind and deaf to all, his compensating senses enhance the sensitivity of his prostate and he is blissed out in pleasure, blissed out in fear, and blissed out in abandon.  
   
Quivering and vibrating and trembling to the rhythm of the pulsing and the fucking and the sucking, spread open and stuffed full, he is cradled in tentacles and rocked in the water of the lake.  
   
When a tentacle wraps round his length and another suctions right onto the head of his cock he weeps his ecstasy and moans his bliss. He’s trying to thrust and buck and undulate, but is held firm, held in darkness, held in silence. His orgasm builds and builds from somewhere deep inside, taunted and teased by tentacles and seduced and summoned by suckers. His mouth falls open and he drips with drool and snot and slime and tears. He has tentacles around him and over him and _inside_ him.  
   
He comes in a slow unstoppable inevitable wave and he yields and surrenders and succumbs to it. The tentacle on his cock-head sucks out every drop of his come, and he _feels_ the creature’s joy, the creature’s bliss, the creature’s satisfaction.  
   
But only for a short time, before he is sucked and fucked and jacked to orgasm again, feeding the creature more of his come. He floats in bliss for a while till the creature starts working him up again.  
   
Exhausted and incoherent he can do nothing but submit, existing only to be milked by the creature. It’s a slow climb to orgasm this time, a slow spiral up, and he can’t get there faster and he can’t push himself over and can’t will it to end, because that would all require conscious thought, and all he can do is experience.  
   
He’s hovering on the edge of his final and last orgasm. The tentacle in his hair tilts his head back and back, water lapping at his forehead, his neck long and exposed, white hair floating like a halo. The tentacle in his mouth swells past his gag reflex and thrusts down his throat. His balls ache to come and his cock aches to come, and there’s increasing pressure from the suckers on his throat. The tentacle round his neck tightens, and he’s _almost there, almost there_ , distracted by the need to breathe. He’s held tight, can’t move, heart pounding to get more air. Breath shaky and inhalations hurting, and he’s _gonna, gonna_ , light-headed and fuzzy-brained. Lungs burning, airways blocked, brain shutting down. He is unable to breathe, unable to move his limbs.  
   
So the tentacles do all the work for him. They force and push and pull the final orgasm from his body. He explodes in fireworks and sparklers and fairy lights, and bliss and joy and ecstasy, too much for one little human body to endure. He loses consciousness and sinks below the water and drowns.  
   
***  
   
 _‘Snape found me, of course,’ Draco says, ‘and Madame Pomfrey saved my life. Fabulous orgasm, though! Almost worth it… couldn’t get rid of the scar of course, from the very first time it gripped me and dragged me out into the lake.’  
   
‘Pomfrey did well enough,’ Harry says, petting the scar with lube-covered fingers. He’s been preparing Draco all through the final part, hanging on to every word, rubbing and thrusting his fingers into him, readying him. ‘The scar is neat and fine, crisp and white, even against your pale skin.’  
   
‘Yeah,’ Draco moans, a dual-purpose moan of agreement and need.  
   
Harry kisses along the scar, tonguing it lovingly. Then he kisses his way over the knee and up Draco’s inner thigh, right up to his hole, and tongues it lovingly. He licks and slurps and nibbles and kisses and suckles, and adds his own spit and saliva to Draco’s lubed and prepped hole.  
   
Harry rises above him and fucks into him, kissing him with his soppy messy mouth. When Draco begs to come and moans his need and pants his desperation, Harry says ‘not yet’ and ‘soon Draco’ and ‘hold on’.  
   
Harry hitches his arms under Draco’s knees and braces his weight on him, so he can fuck with abandon, thrusting deeply, deeply, balls-deep. He groans when he comes, face frozen in focused inner bliss, body arched, cock spurting deep inside Draco’s body.  
   
When he becomes aware enough to look outside himself to Draco’s needs, Harry pauses and frowns.  
   
Draco is rocking himself on Harry’s softening cock, sobbing fat wet tears down his pink flushed face. Pleading for release, begging to come. His cock is hard and blood-engorged and dusky purple. Harry can see it throb, pulsing with Draco's pounding heartbeat, bouncing against Draco's belly.  
   
'You try so hard for me,' Harry says, and he leans over and kisses again the long scar on Draco's calf. 'It means so much to me, you know that Draco, don't you? How much you try.'  
   
'I do try,' Draco sobs, moaning his need. 'For you, Harry, all for you ...'  
   
'Then come for me,' Harry says, 'show me what's mine.'  
   
And without a touch, Draco rocks forward once, twice, and his body spasms in orgasm, fountaining his release between them, milking Harry's cock still buried within him. He cries openly, face blotch mottled pink, and his tears are lapped up by Harry. He's whispering ‘thank you’ over and over, with all the cadence of a prayer, as he arches and rocks to his aftershocks. He's exhausted in body and spirit and he melts into the strength of Harry.  
   
'Beautiful,' Harry smiles. 'Beautiful, my own.'_  
 

**Part Three - The Tale of the Dancing Bells**  
   
 _‘This one here,’ says Harry, trailing his cock, soppy and sticky from his own come and Draco’s drool, over the scar on Draco’s shoulder, ‘this one must have been deep.’ He drags his spent cock back and forward along the length of the sharply defined scar, smearing it shiny. ‘So much pain, my Draco, so much you’ve suffered…’  
   
Harry waits patiently for Draco to try and clear his throat, full as it must be with Harry’s own come, and sore probably too, for Draco has truly outdone himself with his deep-throating this time. He rubs his fingertips in little circles just in front of Draco’s ears, right over all the little ligaments and muscles of his jaw, offering ease after the sustained stretch and hard work they’ve just finished. He thumbs away the tears falling from Draco’s red eyes, understanding they’re shed for joy and release and thankfulness for Harry’s care and concern.  
   
‘ … deep … hurt,’ Draco rasps.  
   
Harry leans forward, soothing Draco’s flinch, and feeds his soft cock back into Draco’s mouth.  
   
‘Just to clean it, love,’ he croons. ‘That’s it, just lick it clean, and then we can snuggle. And if you can – you know how much it means to me that you share so much of yourself with me – I want to hear what happened. How you got this scar… Do you think you can, Draco? Do you think you’ll be able?’  
   
In deference to Draco’s fragility Harry moves with slow gentle care, guiding Draco to lie with him, snuggled to his side, arms circling him, keeping him safe.  
   
‘It was awful, Harry,’ Draco pauses to clear his throat, small shallow coughs, swallowing delicately. ‘But I want you to know… I want to tell…’  
   
‘Good, oh that’s good,’ Harry pets him, right over the scar. ‘I know it’s hard for you… take your time… just start when you’re ready…’ _  
   
***

 

Bellatrix can barely contain herself. She’s bouncing up and down with glee.  
   
‘Thank you, my Lord, thank you,’ she’s babbling, giggling in her joy, gripping Draco’s arm and dragging him behind her. ‘He’ll learn, my Lord, he’ll learn a lesson in humility he won’t ever forget!’  
   
‘Something creative, Bella dear,’ the Dark Lord leers. ‘A lesson we can all see the results of, sooner, rather than later.’  
   
‘Of course, my Lord,’ laughing wickedly as she dances from the room.  
   
Draco stumbles after her, numb with shock. One minute he’s sitting at a table, plotting, smirking and colluding with the other senior Death Eaters. The next minute, he’s being singled out, reminded of his failures, and given over to the care of Bellatrix.  
   
They stop right outside the room. Bellatrix slams the door shut and turns on him so quickly he doesn’t have a chance to do anything. She’s in his face saying _‘stupid boy’_ and jabbing him with her wand. He’s trapped; the wall to the room they’ve just exited at his back, and the tip of her wand at his front.  
   
‘Stupid boy,’ she’s hissing, ‘so arrogant. So proud. When will you learn, Draco? You foolish foolish child!’  
   
‘Please Aunty…’  
   
‘It’s too late, now!’ She twirls around, tapping her chin to indicate she’s thinking, her black hair flying. Stops mid-twirl, grinning widely, and he knows to expect the worst.  
   
‘Strip for me, nephew,’ she says softly. ‘Right here in the hallway. Strip for me, now.’  
   
‘Aunty, please…’  
   
‘Every stitch, boy. Now.’  
   
‘Aunty Bella, please, we don’t have to do this. We could just tell our Lord…’  
   
 _‘Not.’_ Wand jab. _‘One.’_ Wand jab. _‘More.’_ Wand jab. _‘Word.’_ Wand jab.  
   
He reaches slowly for a boot, while she’s off twirling in the hallway again. She spins and rolls her eyes at him, mutters a spell that simply vanishes his clothes, and laughs gleefully.  
   
‘Too slow! Too slow!’  
   
Chains rattle at his wrists, link together, and raise his hands high to attach to a hook now hanging from the ceiling. Chains rattle at his ankles, link together and attach to a hook in the stone floor. He feels his wrists rise higher, stretching him out, and he can just keep his balance on the tips of his toes.  
   
A hot blush is blossoming on his body. He’s hanging naked in a hallway, outside the Death Eater’s meeting room, controlled by his mad Aunt.  
   
‘Aunty, what are you…?’  
   
‘Two words, Draco,’ she’s jabbing him with her wand again, and he swings by his wrists, grunting in sudden pain as his toes lose their grip. ‘Given that you’re incapable of silence, I will give you two words. Every sound that you make, every sound that passes your lips, must have the shape of these two words. You will be punished, nephew, for any other sound or word. Your two words are _more, Mistress._ Do you understand?’  
   
He’s saying _yes Aunty_ before sensing the trap, and saying _sorry_ and _I didn’t mean it_ to seal his fate, and Bella jumps up and down laughing at him.  
   
She’s cackling in his face, and he knows he’s naked and chained, entirely at her mercy. She snaps her fingers and a small bell on a wicked clip appears. He’s trying to twinkle-toes his way backwards out of her reach, but the chains rattle and a sob catches in his throat.  
   
The clip is snapped in front of him a couple of times, sharp ragged edges glistening, before she reaches forward and snaps it onto his earlobe. In the moment before the pain hits, she grabs his chin and mouths in his face _two words._  
   
He buckles when the pain explodes, rattling chains and tinkling bell, swinging from his wrists as he tries to curl in on himself, held stretched by the chains. The moan escapes before he can censor it, and he cries with realisation. He’s turning his head, little bell tinkling, trying to rub the clip off against his arm, when another is rattled in his face.  
   
‘Such a pitiful moan, nephew,’ she’s giggling, ‘for such a small bell. Be assured that for every bell you knock free, I will replace it with two more, sharper and larger. Maybe you should say your two words, practice them, so that I know you know them. That way, when you make other sounds, I’ll know that you really are begging to be punished. Say them for me now, Draco.’  
   
He’s got tears on his face, but is too scared to try and rub them away against his raised up arm in case he knocks the bell free. Dread curdles in his tummy at the thought of saying his two words. They’re sitting in the front of his mind, trapping everything else he wants to say behind them, and he knows what will happen when he says them. She’s dangling the clip right in front of him, the tinkling of the bell filling up the silence of the hallway. Another splash of a tear as it slides off his face and lands on his chest, and he blinks and tries to breathe enough to speak.  
   
‘ _More, Mistress_ ,’ he whispers, and she obliges by clipping the bell to his other ear lobe. His scream of pain fills the corridor, but he’s had time to think and prepare and he forces it into the right shape. His head is turning back and forth, trying to rock out the pain, and his wrists strain against their chains, and his ankles throb in their captivity, and his struggles take place to the tune of his ringing bells.  
   
Lips pursed together, he watches as she waves her wand and a little table appears. There’s a bowl of water, a sharp knife and a gnarly knob of something he can’t identify.  
   
Everything is horrifying to him.  
   
He’s chained naked in a hallway with tinkling bells on his ears. He hangs from his wrists, balancing on tippy-toe, on feet chained to the floor. And a mad woman with strong magic is about to teach him a lesson.  
   
‘ _More, Mistress_ ,’ he cries, trying to say _no_ and _please, don’t_.  
   
‘So many tears,’ she croons crazily, ‘such a blubbering baby. I’ll never know why Cissa didn’t drown you in your bath.’  
   
‘ _More, Mistress_ ,’ he moans, pitiful to his own ears.  
   
‘Soon, baby, soon.’ And she’s lost to her task, slicing and carving and whittling away at the unidentifiable chunk.  
   
He smells the strong tang of ginger. She’s carving up a hand of ginger, while he swings in his chains, almost turns full circle, little bells ringing, tippy-toes back to watch her, calf muscles quivering with the strain. He’s running through all the known magical properties of ginger, and all its uses in potions. His tears dry up as he frowns in concentration.  
   
‘Aged and old so it’s strong and potent,’ she says, ‘freshly prepared so it’s intense and vital.’  
   
‘What will you do…?’  
   
She snaps her fingers and holds another bell.  
   
‘ _More, Mistress! More, Mistress!’_ he cries, shaking his head, dancing on his toes. He expects the Death Eaters to come rushing out of the room, he is screaming so loud, but no-one comes and he’s left ruing his inability to remember only two words.  
   
She braces one hand at this back, whispers an incantation that spells the bell ice cold, and rubs it over his nipple. Sharp intake of breath and he moans _more, Mistress_ and knows his nipple is being forced into erection. She fingers his nub till it throbs, stretches it out and snaps the clip into place. Her hand on his back is rubbing in circles, soothing his bucking body through the waves of pain.  
   
‘ _More, Mistress_ ,’ he sobs unwillingly. ‘ _More, Mistress._ ’  
   
‘Yes, my baby, I’m sure there will be.’  
   
***  
   
 _‘Ginger, Draco?’ Harry asks, puzzled. ‘Were you right? Was it ginger?’  
   
‘Yes, Harry,’ Draco says. ‘It was.’  
   
‘I… I don’t know… I can’t tell…’ Harry says, sounding secretly delighted. ‘I don’t know what she’s planning to do with it.’  
   
‘I didn’t know either,’ Draco says.  
   
‘Tell me...’_  
   
***  
   
She’s showing him the chunk of ginger, round and peeled at one end, round and not peeled at the other, with a narrowed neck between.  
   
‘Smell,’ she commands, ‘mmmmmm, yummy.’  
   
‘ _More, Mistress, more, Mistress_ ,’ he’s pleading, as his eyes sting with it so close to his face.  
   
‘And this one,’ and picks up a second long thin piece of ginger, brandishing it in his face, ‘this one too!’  
   
‘ _More, Mistress, more, Mistress_ ,’ he’s crying again, pulse jack-hammering in fear. Heart pounding, the bell on his nipple jiggles and rings, radiating pain. Something terrible is about to happen, but he doesn’t know what.  
   
‘Now, this is the ugly bit Draco, but we must do what we must,’ she laughs wildly, and swishes the ginger in the bowl of water.  
   
One hand on his hip steadies him; the other reaches behind him and presses the ginger at his hole. He struggles instinctively, bells jingling, remembering to shape his screams as _more, Mistress_.  
   
The pressure is relentless and she smacks his butt cheek and braces his hip and pushes and pushes. He’s screaming _more, Mistress_ and straining in his chains, straining against her hand. He’s clenched so tight, nothing’s getting in there.  
   
Until she whispers a spell and he loosens and she says _‘bare down, baby, bare down’_ and he cries in shame and horror as the ginger enters him. She ends the spell and he tightens again, clenching round the narrow neck of the piece, leaving the unpeeled end poking out between his arse cheeks.  
   
He is flaming with shame, blotched face and neck and torso, hanging in the hallway, bells tinkling, impaled on ginger. And he doesn’t know why.  
   
‘ _More, Mistress_ ,’ he implores, but she’s already reaching for the other piece, swishing it in the water.  
   
‘Now, this will be uglier Draco, my nephew, I know, but you will bare this for your Aunty, put on a good show for our Lord, and learn your lesson well. Endure for me, nephew,’ and she moves her supporting hand to the back of his hip.  
   
More chanted spells, this time a wave of wand too, and then he feels it, feels the spell working. His prick, his soft sensitive prick, is rising. He’s aroused and tumescent and burning with shame. He’s not being touched and he’s swelling and standing tall. He’s terrified and horrified and he’s hard and pulsing.  
   
And she reaches for the stick of ginger and feeds it into his slit, pushing it down, down, _inside_. He needs no spell now to keep him hard. Forgets about the pain from being hung from his wrists, forgets about the pain of the clamps on his body, forgets about the pain of having something shoved in his hole.  
   
Forgets about his two words.  
   
He screams _‘No!’_ and _‘Stop!’_ and she rings two bells in his face and he can barely make them out through his tears. Before he realises, one’s clamped on his other nipple and one’s clamped on the skin of his ball sack. He screams inarticulate sounds, and another is clamped on his ball sack, and his face is slapped back and forwards to stop his hysteria.  
   
His screams turn to sobs, and he cries harshly _‘more, Mistress’_. Every part of his body radiates pain and quivers in shock, his chest heaving, and the hallway rings with the jingling of his bells.  
   
***  
   
 _‘Were they like Christmas bells, Draco?’ Harry asks. ‘Little golden bells with pretty jingle-bell sounds?’  
   
‘Yes, Harry,’ says Draco. ‘Like harness bells, quite lovely really.’  
   
‘And the ginger, Draco,’ says Harry, ‘what was that all about?’  
   
‘Yes, I’m getting there, Harry…’ _  
   
***  
   
He’s crying harshly, but managing to filter every sound he makes into _‘more, Mistress’_.  
   
He’s starting to feel… something warm, something… twitchy, but is distracted by his Aunt turning him round so that he’s facing the wall. She hitches one of his wrist chains, so that he doesn’t twist back round, and she adjusts his ankle chains so that he can open his legs a bit wider and can balance on the balls of his feet.  
   
In fact, it’s more than warm now, and he hates that it’s _inside_ of him, and he can’t get it out. In his body, in his prick, and he can’t force it out.  
   
Behind him she whispers _‘engorgio’_ and he feels the ginger swell in his hole, in his prick, huge things in his body, stretching him where things shouldn’t be. He’s throbbing with pain, shivering with shock, streaked with sweat and tears, and his bells jangle.  
   
‘ _More, Mistress,_ ’ he’s moaning, _‘more, Mistress.’_ Moving his weight from foot-tip to foot-tip, he’s uncomfortable and unnerved and frightened.  
   
Magic ripples past him, and the wall he is facing becomes a transparent window, and he hangs in front of the glass, naked, belled, hard, and stuffed with ginger.  
   
Ginger that is heating his body from the inside out, and he’s itching and tingling, squirming and tinkling, and he’s finally realising what ginger will do to him.  
   
Behind him, Bellatrix is twirling and laughing, and before him, the Dark Lord holds court with a room full of Death Eaters.  
   
And inside of him, the ginger is heating and irritating the tender sensitive linings of his inner body.  
   
His prick is full and hard and so engorged with blood his skin feels like it will split and burst. It bounces with the force of his pulse, the stick of ginger poking out of his slit. Fire burns along its length, and he’s rocking to an intense prickling sensation, like thousands of pinpricks piercing his prick. With each rocking movement, his testicle bells jingle and jangle, and the Dark Lord’s attention is caught.  
   
He closes his eyes and cries _‘more Mistress’_ and tries to twist in his chains. His arse is burning and stinging with irritation, and his hands are jerking with their need to scratch and rub and soothe and _get the ginger out!_  
   
He rocks back and forwards, thrusting his prick, chest heaving, keeping his bells tinkling. With each clench of muscle the burn intensifies, so he’s trying to stay loose and open. But he’s tight and burning and bucking in his chains, burning from the inside out.  
   
There’s more desperation in his _‘more, Mistress’_ , more intensity, and he’s begging and pleading through his _‘more, Mistress’_ , begging for help, for surely his Aunt doesn’t know what the ginger is doing to him.  
   
He earns more bells as the burning and irritation builds and builds. He’s incoherent with pain and shame, as he twitches and bucks and humps in his chains, framed in a window for the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters to watch. He’s pushing the edge of agony and surrender, his body fighting to split itself open to escape from the ginger within.  
   
‘Dance, Draco!’ Bella crows, ‘Dance for your Lord!’  
   
And he does, writhing and thrusting and stretching – anything that might dislodge the ginger, anything that might ease the burn, anything that might soothe the incessant itch.  
   
His muscles quiver with exhaustion and he’s slowing under the strain. He’s spending more time dangling, just letting his body do what it must – hump, twitch, undulate – than he spends balancing on his toes.  
   
He believes he’s burning to death, from the inside out, bells chiming his way, watched by the Dark Lord, viewed by the Death Eaters, and taunted by his Aunt.  
   
‘ _More, Mistress,_ ’ he cries brokenly, _‘more, Mistress.’_ And he means _let me die, Aunty, let it end_. He lets go, and gives in, and hangs limply, barely conscious, willing himself away.  
   
The first lash of the whip to his back shocks him to the point of blackout – body frozen in an arched spasm so brutal he’s sure he’s dislocated his shoulder and damaged both his wrists. His body flinches violently, tries to roll itself into a tiny ball, and his bondage rattles and his bells jangle and he screams in horror. Agony blinds him as he clenches round the ginger in his arse. A second lash and the whip rips open his shoulder. And he screams through the window, begs his Lord for forgiveness, begs for an end, begs for it all to stop.  
   
Begs without restraint - begs earnestly and desperately, in humility and surrender.  
   
And Bella sends him little bells on vicious clips that attach themselves all round the edge of the head of his dick.  
   
Another lash of the whip comes at him sideways, slicing across his chest, opening…  
   
***  
   
 _‘No-oo,’ Harry interrupts, as if censuring a young child for reaching for an extra sweet.  
   
‘Harry?’  
   
‘No, Draco,’ Harry states calmly. ‘She can’t touch you there.’  
   
Harry rubs his fingers over Draco’s chest, seeking with assurance his three scars, older now and faded against pale skin, but more precious than Harry can ever give words to.  
   
‘That’s mine. They’re mine. She can’t mark you there.’  
   
‘I didn’t mean…’  
   
‘I don’t care! They’re mine! No one else can go there. I was there first, and they’re mine. You should have known that… You shouldn’t have said...’  
   
‘I’m sorry, Harry, you’re right of course,’ Draco tries his hardest to lure him back into the tale, to rescue himself from disaster. ‘But there was more, Harry, more that you’ll want to hear. More that I have to tell you. About how the Death Eater meeting broke up. And how they stood around waiting their turn. And how as each one left the room, they fucked me up against the window, a long train of Death Eaters, Harry, all queuing to use me. And she spelled me, Harry, spelled my arousal to match that of the one taking me. Spelled me so that with the first splash of come on me or in me, I came too, hard and long, Harry, every time, even when I ran dry, Harry, I still orgasmed on the cock of every Death Eater who fucked me. I should tell you about it, Harry, you want to know, don’t you, you want to hear the rest?’  
   
‘These are mine,’ Harry continues, as though Draco has not spoken, stroking lovingly over the scars. ‘I made them, I gave them to you, I marked you with them.’  
   
Draco stills, quiet and alert, aware he’s made a mistake.  
   
‘Yours,’ he assures Harry, reaching forward to kiss any part of Harry’s body he can reach. ‘No one else’s. Only yours.’  
   
‘Mine.’ Harry mounts him and takes him, and Draco opens willingly and submits completely.  
   
‘Yours.’ Draco calmly croons, though he is being rocked and ravaged, bruised and marked.  
   
‘You shouldn’t have said it,’ Harry pants as he thrusts hungrily with all his strength. ‘You ruined the story. They’re mine…’ and he can’t speak anymore, overcome with the effort of fucking Draco, grunting and straining and pounding and crying.  
   
He comes in an explosion of relief and fury then viciously pulls Draco to orgasm. He rolls to his side, places his hand on Draco’s barely moving chest, finding reassurance through his tears in the scars that are his. _  
   
***  
   
There are many scars on Draco’s body.  
   
Draco stands before his mirror, freshly bathed, freshly cleansed inside and out. He has removed every bristle of hair from every place on his body. He has oiled and stretched himself.  
   
He spends two hours each day he is able to stand upright, though sitting or reclining if need be, staring into this mirror. It was a gift from Harry, and Harry has designated the time each day between morning tea and lunch as Draco’s time to contemplate his scars.  
   
It’s especially important today, because Draco knows he will be getting a new scar. Sometimes Harry asks him where he’d like it, and he needs to have a pleasing answer ready just in case. He regards his body, considering positioning for an aesthetically beautiful placement.  
   
It’s his fault of course, making such a foolish mistake, forgetting the sacrosanctity of his scarred chest.  
   
Harry’s first scars.  
   
Harry’s only unintentional scars.  
   
Given in the wildness of youth, when Harry was out-of-control – confused, betrayed, used, fated, marked, besieged. Given out of obsession, and rivalry, and enmity. Given with no understanding, no warning, and no thought.  
   
Of course, things are very different now. Now Harry has control, has ownership, and has understanding.  
   
Now, instead of surprise and attack, there is planning and ritual. Harry loves a good ritual.  
   
There is ritual in Draco’s own actions, his bathing, enema, shaving and prep. There will be ritual when Harry summons him and he forces himself to walk to the designated room. There will be ritual in the fucking he will get, the coming he will do, and the orgasm he will have.  
   
As it has been done before, so it will happen again.  
   
Ritual in the way Harry will carry him to the bench, secure his body, and choose the site. Ritual in the murmured love words, soothing sounds, calming whispers. Ritual in the laying out of the knives, the choosing of blade, the testing of precision.  
   
There is no magic at all in this ritual.  
   
Not in the carving or the slicing or the peeling of his skin. Not for the reduction of his fear, the calming of his breathing, the muting of his pain. He will not be able to be silent, will not be able to hold back his tears, and will not be able to stop an erection. And all the while Harry will be saying _‘good boy’_ and _‘nearly finished’_ and _‘precious boy’_ and _‘not long now’_.  
   
No magic either for the long, prolonged, healing. For the long, long months he will spend secured, immobile, ensuring an evenly healed, prominent, perfect scar. Not for the periodic re-carving, the constant application of irritants, or the repetitive teasing apart of healing skin - all of which Harry will do, lovingly, by his own hand.  
   
There will be ritual in the way Harry will care for him. Obsessed, tender, attentive. Feeding him, cleansing him, brushing his hair. Reading to him, riding him, sucking him. Doing all things for him, things he won’t be able to do for himself, immobilised as he will be, as Harry’s scar develops.  
   
Draco had imagined many possible futures for himself (wealthy businessman, wealthy gadabout, wealthy nightclub owner) and many possible futures for Harry (dead by Draco’s own hands, dead by the Dark Lord’s own hands, dead by Harry’s own stupidity), but none were to be.  
   
In defeating the Dark Lord, Harry emerged with a Dark obsession, and the wizarding world enabled his taking of Draco, pretending it was romance, sugar-coating it as love, blind-eyeing it as consensual.  
   
He examines himself in the mirror.  
   
He has many scars. All of them gifted from Harry.  
   
A bell chimes and there’s the clicking sound of his door unlocking.  
   
It’s time.  
   
He drags in shaky breaths and tries to ease the quivering in his muscles. He takes one step, then another, then another, and in this way he makes his way to Harry. Out the door and down the corridor, back straight and eyes glazed, one mechanical step after the other.  
   
He’s wondering what size and shape his scar will be, already making tentative choices of cast and setting. He will have a long time while he is recuperating to work on plot and dialogue.  
   
And he’ll be praying his tale will be worthy of the scar Harry will create.  
   
For no one worships Draco's scars quite like Harry can. And it is Draco’s sole and only purpose in life to earn that worship.

fin


End file.
